While My Wife's Away

by James Lear

  Anyway, the more I think about it, the surer I become that it’s not really other men I’m interested in, not for themselves anyway. It’s what they did to me that mattered, the way they touched me and made me feel. If I was turned on by anything, it was myself—my own body, neglected and untouched for so long. I spend so much time locked in the bathroom, I inevitably look in the mirror a lot. It’s as good as porn—better, in some ways, because I will always do exactly what I want to see. Some shots are harder than others—for instance, if I want to get a good look at my arse, I have to angle my shaving mirror carefully and kind of twist around—but it’s manageable. I’ve even experimented with sticking a finger up there, well lubricated with moisturizer of course, and although the feeling was weird, it looked good enough to make me extremely horny. I whipped it out quickly. I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet. I did, however, take a snapshot of it on my phone, which gave me something to wank over and immediately delete.

  After the first time, this became a regular feature of my bathroom wanks: I’d select a part of my body that I wanted to concentrate on, photograph it, shoot my load, and hit delete. Surely this must be what all those millions of bodybuilders who post selfies on Instagram are doing. I can’t believe it’s all in the interest of physical fitness. But self-photography has its limitations, and it began to dawn on me that what I really needed was someone else to operate the camera. That way, I could get a really good record of my body, see what I look like with a hard-on, and see how it feels to expose myself to another person’s appreciative gaze. The idea of being naked for a photographer, vulnerable in front of a clothed man, made me breathless with excitement. Of course, there’s the danger that the photographs might end up in the wrong hands, but I could always wear a mask or simply insist that my face not appear.

  I became obsessed by the idea, even to the extent of googling ‘nude male photographer London.’ There were plenty of them out there, both amateur and professional, advertising their services, looking for models; some of them offered payment, others demanded it. There were whole websites dedicated to bringing photographers and models together, and I had a good look at the pictures, imagining myself in the model’s place, how easy it would be to nip out at lunchtime or after work, strip off, pose, and come home with a memory stick full of secrets. But all those sites require the creation of a profile and the sharing of some rudimentary information—and these are things that I am not prepared to do. Profiles, even the cleverest, can be traced back to you. All it would take is for Angie to ‘accidentally’ use my computer or phone, to stumble upon some unsolicited email, and it would all come out. Better to leave no trace at all. And there’s really no way of doing that, is there?

  And then I discovered Craigslist.

  Anonymous email, easily deleted and blocked. No profiles, no real names, no evidence. Of course if someone—the police, say— really wanted to follow my tracks, they could, but they’d have to be pretty determined. Create a new email account with extra-heavy security, and I was in.

  And it’s all there. Every sexual possibility imaginable, including quite a few that I had never even dreamed of. Countless photographers looking for male models, some of them obvious wankers, but some of them apparently legitimate. All they required was a reply and a photo. Well, I could give them something faceless, my torso in the mirror at the gym, not at home just in case, just in case . . . .

  No, this is ridiculous, I can’t do it. One step on that slippery slope and there’s no going back. Life as you know it will simply unravel.

  I browsed the ads and shut the browser down so many times, at work, at home, on my phone on the train, unable to stop considering all those possibilities, tormenting myself with how easy it would be, and then, inevitably, I sent off a reply. My hands were shaking and I felt freezing cold, even though the radiator in my office was turned up high. The moment I sent it, I wanted to take it back, but now it was out there, doing its work, forging the next link in the chain, from my neck injury to Adrian’s massage table to the showers to Michael’s flat to my bathroom mirror, and now where? A flat somewhere in South London, according to the ad.

  Photographer, amateur but experienced, seeks male models, 21 to 60, fit, partial nude, nude, erotic, it’s up to you. Drop me a line if interested. Strictly private—I don’t publish or share pics. South London, near tube.

  Well, he didn’t sound like a blackmailer or a mad axe murderer, so I wrote: ‘Sounds good, I’m forty-two, straight, married, gym fit, need some decent pics, never done this before.’ Nothing compromising there. If anyone asks, I just want to record my progress at the gym. I’ve read enough articles about male vanity to know that I’m not the only man taking an interest in how I look; nothing weird about wanting to record it. Doesn’t mean I’m gay.

  I knew that if I stayed at my desk or carried my phone, I’d be checking my inbox every ten seconds, so I busied myself with other stuff until it was gym time. I hadn’t seen Michael since our last encounter; maybe he was avoiding me. Adrian was around, of course, but I had nothing to hide from him apart from my innermost thoughts, which returned time and again to the feeling of his hands on my body, the bulge in my pants. He took an interest in my neck and shoulder, told me to come back for another treatment when I had time, and that was it. He said nothing remotely suggestive of any interest other than a professional one. Why would he? He was a gym instructor and physiotherapist; I was a client, and that was all. I couldn’t quite believe that he didn’t feel something that day, that it hadn’t transmitted itself through my skin. Part of me was disappointed. I wanted him to want me, even if I didn’t want him.

  Thirty minutes on the treadmill followed by a further thirty minutes in the free-weight room, bench-pressing 100kg until I nearly dropped the bar on my face, and I was ready for a shower. The changing rooms were empty, and there was a full-length mirror, and my phone was in my locker, and loads of the guys take changing room selfies. If I held the phone in the right place, it conveniently obscured my face. My chest, shoulders, and arms looked great. Everything else was covered by a white towel. It would be nothing more than a quick indulgence in vanity after a good workout. The fact that I might need a decent photo had never occurred to me, had it?

  Usually I shoulder my kitbag, say goodnight to the receptionist, and head straight for the tube, the first stage of my journey home, but tonight I remembered something I’d forgotten to do in the office— what was it? Who knows? And I nipped back upstairs. While I was there, I might as well check my emails.

  Thanks for getting in touch. You sound like just the kind of guy I want to photograph. If you’re interested, send me a recent photo, and we’ll organize a date. Cheers, Pete.

  Jesus! I shut down the computer as fast as I could and ran out of the building.

  But of course, when I was on the train, I opened the email on my phone, and it was so easy to attach the changing room photo, confident that I couldn’t be identified. ‘Here I am,’ I said. ‘Look forward to hearing from you. Jack.’

  Well, I wasn’t going to sign it Joe, was I?

  The reply came within a minute.

  Very nice indeed. I’m in Oval, two mins from tube. What times/days are good for you?

  Without thinking, I replied, ‘tomorrow lunchtime?’

  Perfect. Just confirm in the morning and I’ll send you the address. Pete

  Was it really that easy? In less than twenty-four hours, I could be naked in front of another man with a camera. He’ll be in charge, directing me, getting the best from me, and if I get turned on, it won’t be my fault. He’s seen it all before. No consequences; nobody need know. Of course it means I have to trust him, but he said he didn’t show the pictures to anyone or share them online . . .

  They all say that, said a voice in my head, and before you know it, your picture will be on every gay website in the world; it’ll find its way back to you or Angie or, worse, your kids, your boss . . .

  I turned the phone off. I hadn’t committed
to anything. He couldn’t find me. All I had to do was block any further replies, and it was over. An interesting experiment—you could set something like that up in just a couple of hours with a handful of emails. That’s how it’s done. Now you know. Go home, forget about it, and in the morning, you’ll realize it was just a moment of madness.

  I spent the evening watching crap TV with Angie, barely exchanging a word, and then a sleepless night in my daughter’s bed with a highly inappropriate hard-on that wouldn’t go down, however much I stared at the unappealing photos of One Direction in the dead orange glow of the streetlight outside the window.

  Around three A.M., still unable to sleep, I amused myself by taking a few photos of my erection, and I even thought of sending one of them to Pete the photographer, with the words ‘sneak preview!’ I thought better of it, deleted the pictures, and dozed uneasily until six. Then had a quick breakfast, showered, and was out of the house and on the train by seven. Trying not to think about what might happen today; if I just keep myself busy, I won’t have time to do anything, and then lunchtime will roll round, meetings will overrun as they always do; Pete might be disappointed, but I can’t be the only man to get cold feet; and then before I knew it, I’d sent him another email: ‘Just to confirm today, what’s the address?’ and he replied with the information and a friendly word.

  And so my fate was sealed.

  I kept my head down all morning, and at 12:30, told my boss I was going to the dentist. She’s always fine about things like that. I jumped on the tube, three stops and I was at Oval, looking for the address. It’s not an area I’m familiar with, but my footsteps seemed to lead me in the right direction, and there I was.

  I could still turn back, run away.

  I saw a face at the window, a smile, a friendly wave. He looked normal enough, not fat, not wearing a nightie or a leather harness or anything like that. He opened the front door before I rang, a man in his fifties in an open-necked shirt and sweater, jeans, and trainers. Just like anyone you’d see on the street. Dark hair, neatly cut, balding. A bit thick round the middle, but that didn’t matter. I was going to be naked, not him.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yeah. Hi.’ I’d been practising. Jack. Jack. Jack.

  ‘Come in. It’s cold, isn’t it? Don’t worry. I’ve turned the central heating up for you. And the light’s good.’ He looked up at the cloudless winter sky. ‘That helps. I don’t like using flash; it looks horrible, natural light’s much better . . . .’

  I was inside, the door closed behind me. A tidy Victorian house, nicely furnished.

  ‘Let me take your coat. Would you like tea or coffee? Water?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I was nervous, wanting to do something, jog on the spot, skip, anything but sit still.

  ‘Toilet’s just here if you need it. We’ll be shooting upstairs. OK? After you.’

  Shooting? You mean it’s really going to happen? Me, naked and posing in front of a man with a camera? This man? Here? Now? Impossible, ridiculous, I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole or walked through the looking glass; nothing made sense. Why would anyone want to photograph me, a middle-aged balding man, not particularly handsome, not one of those guys with sharp haircuts and six packs and zero body fat? I’m just a bloke. Decent looking, fit, but hardly model material.

  ‘I’m so glad you turned up,’ said Pete. ‘A lot of guys get cold feet.’

  Why not me? Was I really so far gone that I was the one in a hundred who actually went through with it? ‘Right.’

  ‘And you’re exactly the kind of guy I like to photograph. Not too polished or groomed. A proper man. You’re married, right?’

  Despite my nerves, I was starting to get excited. There was no one else to see us. Whatever happened in the next hour was between me and Pete. ‘You really don’t show the photos to anyone else?’

  ‘No. You’ll have to trust me on that. I don’t publish them online and I don’t even email them to friends.’

  ‘OK.’ He could be lying, of course, and this time tomorrow, my photos could have gone viral. UNIVERSITY WORKER, FATHER OF TWO, GETS COCK OUT FOR DIRTY OLD MAN. Wife and kids go into hiding, family disowns me, unemployment, disgrace, with suicide the only option. But apparently even the idea of suicide didn’t affect my dick.

  ‘Just in here.’ He opened a door off the first-floor landing. The room was large, square, and empty but for a sofa and a table. A large window looked out to the garden. ‘We can’t be seen, and the light’s good in here.’

  I walked around as if I was a prospective buyer being shown a house by a real estate agent. ‘Very nice. You’ve lived here long?’

  ‘Oh, forever. Now, how much time do you have?’

  ‘About an hour.’ It seemed like an eternity. Sixty minutes. So much could happen. He could be a murderer for all I knew.

  ‘Fine. We’d better get on with it then, if that’s OK. Take your jacket off. We’ll start with a few portraits, just to get you used to the camera. Take a seat.’

  The sofa was upholstered in green velvet. I perched at one end, feet apart, hands clasped, leaning forward. My knuckles were white. Pete fiddled with his camera, keeping up a stream of friendly small talk—the weather, public transport, property prices in the area, and so on. Obviously, he knew I needed time to relax. He was, as his ad said, experienced. I started to feel better.

  ‘OK, let’s just do a few shots.’ His camera was large, black, and bulky, professional-looking. He put it to his eye and pointed it at me. Click click click. My jaw was clenched, my lips pursed. ‘Stand up for me. Now, rotate your shoulders—forward a few times, that’s it, now backward. Scrunch them up to your ears, really tight, and now let them go. Shake it out. Few deep breaths. Now do this.’ He blew a loud raspberry, which was so unexpected, it made me laugh. ‘Go on. Your turn.’

  I did as I was told and felt better. When I sat down again I leaned back, one arm over the back of the sofa, legs crossed, ankle on one knee.

  ‘That’s better.’ Click click click. ‘Now, shoes and socks off, please.’ So it begins. I took hold of one shoelace—I wear shiny black Oxfords to work—and hesitated for a second before pulling. I could still be one of the men who gets cold feet. Pull that piece of string, and you’re a nude model, a porn star, an outcast.

  I pulled.

  Pete carried on shooting, crouching down to focus on my feet as the shoes and socks came off. ‘Very nice. Hold it there, let me get some close-ups. You have very sexy feet.’

  Sexy feet? Jesus, I thought, if he’s that easily pleased, wait till he sees the rest of me. A feeling of power buzzed through me. I was desirable, desired. I was right to do this. My body was something to see, something to admire.

  ‘Now sit back. Legs apart. That’s it. Loosen the tie.’ More clicks. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Relaxing?’

  ‘Yes, a bit.’

  ‘Just put your hand over your crotch, like this.’ He cupped his own groin. ‘Give it a bit of a squeeze. That’s it.’

  My cock, already half hard, responded instantly. Pete had good timing. If he’d asked me to do this a couple of minutes ago, I might have fled. Now I just wanted to get naked and let him see everything.

  ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Feels…’ I had a frog in my throat, and had to cough. ‘Feels good.’

  ‘And it looks good too. Hold it there.’ He came closer, kneeling in front of me to shoot upward. ‘Fantastic. Here.’ He pressed a button, turned the camera round to show me the image on the screen. I was shocked: It looked so glossy, so professional. My hand, resting over my cock, was in sharp focus; my head, leaning against the back of the sofa, was soft and slightly blurred.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘Yeah. Really good.’ I was expecting snapshots, not this.

  ‘Undo your tie. That’s it, great. And a couple of buttons on your shirt.’

  I was ready for anything now. I put a hand inside my
shirt and felt my chest, scratching through the hair.

  ‘OK, I’m just going to keep shooting. I want you to take your clothes off when you’re ready. Strip for me. Don’t rush.’

  He moved around me, sometimes so close I could feel the heat from him, sometimes across the room. I undid my shirt completely, exposing my flat, hairy stomach. Thank God for all those ab work-outs. The shirt came off.

  ‘Wow. You’re really beautiful.’

  This was not a word I’ve heard applied to me before. I blushed. ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘You are. Take my word for it. You’re a very beautiful man.’

  I felt like I’d gulped a large scotch in one go. ‘Thanks.’ My hand was at my crotch again, pressing. I was rock-hard.

  ‘How about the belt?’

  He didn’t need to ask me twice. I unbuckled the belt, unfastened the top of my trousers, and unzipped the fly. When I looked down, I could clearly see the outline of my cock in my brand-new tight white Armani briefs. So, it seemed, could Pete. He stood over me, shooting down. No need to tell me what to do: I wanted to show off for him, to turn him on as he was turning me on. If he’d touched me . . .

  I thought of Michael between my knees, his expert caresses, his warm, wet mouth. This is it, isn’t it? I’m here with a man, I’m about to pull my cock out, I’m thinking about the last time a man sucked me off, and if it happens again, I want it, I need it; I’m gay, aren’t I? That’s what this is all about. It’s the only thing that makes sense of these feelings; nothing else matters, my wife, my family, my job, I’ll sacrifice them all for this moment and these feelings.

  I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my briefs and tugged them down. Slowly, with Pete snapping all the time, exposing my pubic hair, the base of my cock, the elastic resting over the length of my shaft, then down a little more, exposing myself, and finally down completely to rest underneath my balls. My cock sprang up and slapped against my stomach. It was out, I could feel the air and Pete’s eyes on it, and every erection I’ve experienced before was nothing compared to this. One touch was all it would take.